Sherlock Holmes- a Duel With the Devil

by Roger Jaynes

  The Case of the Baffled Courier

  We had been back at Baker Street little more than a week when the spectre of Moriarty rose before us again.

  The Tuesday to which I now refer was an unseasonably bitter day. Blustery winds swirled through the cobblestone streets and about the gabled housetops of London, while dark grey clouds promised rain. Overnight, the weather had turned cold, bringing with it that first unwelcome hint of impending winter, which causes even the hardiest of souls to immediately bring out again his ulster and cravat.

  Seduced by the blanketed warmth of my bed, I slept late. Upon rising a little before nine, I hurried down to find my companion, Sherlock Holmes, already dressed and busily engaged at his desk with gluepot and scissors, clipping items of interest for his scrapbook from the dailies which Mrs Hudson had saved in our absence. A scrap of toast upon his plate showed that he had long ago partaken of breakfast. Alas, I found, the porridge had also grown quite cold.

  ‘Released from the spell of Morpheus at last, I see,’ Holmes said, as I poured myself a steaming cup of coffee. ‘It is just as well; I was about to wake you.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. I should like your assistance shortly, unless you have other plans.’

  Turning my chair closer to the crackling fire, I sank down, and placed my slippered feet upon the fender. ‘Consider me at your disposal, then,’ I told him, after a warming sip from my cup. ‘I had thought to start my day by reading Guy Boothby’s latest, but that can surely wait.’

  ‘Excellent! Then you shall be my faithful Boswell once again, with pen and notebook ready in hand.’

  ‘Ah, you have a client?’

  Holmes nodded, a gleam in his gimlet eyes. Rising, he brought me a small sheet of embossed notepaper, which, he said, had been delivered not an hour before. Upon it was written the following:

  My dear Mr Holmes,

  I have been referred to you by a mutual acquaintance, Dr Percy Trevelyan, who insists you are the only man fit to advise me on a perplexing matter which I have been engaged to undertake. I shall take the liberty of calling this morning, shortly after nine.

  Respectfully,

  Howard Montclair

  ‘Trevelyan! ’ I cried. ‘Why, he was the fellow who put us on to the Worthingdon bank gang! Good Lord, Holmes, I wonder who is this Howard Montclair?’

  ‘He is a solicitor, Watson. Note the trademark on the stationery.’

  ‘H’mm. Merryweather & Stone. A quite respected firm.’

  ‘Indeed. It is rather unusual, you must admit. A man who is paid generously to give legal counsel, seeking my advice?’ Holmes strode to the window above his desk, and glanced

  down in the street. ‘Ah! A cab is at the kerb, I see. That must be him. Fetch your notebook, Doctor. His story may not be so adventurous as your sixpenny novel, but I have no doubt it should prove interesting.’

  No sooner had I done so than we heard the clattering ring of our front bell, and Mrs Hudson’s voice below. Footsteps followed upon the stairs, and a singular knock at the door, as she ushered in our guest.

  Howard Montclair was a distinguished-looking fellow of about middle age, of medium height and weight. He had a wide, honest countenance, a no-nonsense air, and a full head of the darkest brown hair, whose sideburns had begun to grey. His heavy brown Chesterfield, gloves and matching topper, I felt, were suitable for the weather, and I also noticed, as we were introduced, that a black armband hung from his left sleeve, denoting that he was in mourning.

  ‘You have our deepest sympathies,’ Holmes told him, as I took his outer attire. ‘A relative, I presume?’

  ‘You are correct,’ Montclair stated. ‘It has been two weeks since I lost my younger brother, Arthur. A skiing accident in the Alps.’

  ‘He was on vacation there?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Arthur was with the diplomatic corps in Rome. A stenographer, assigned to Sir William Morrison at the consulate since August. He lived with the Morrisons at their villa, outside the city. From what I’m told, Arthur had only recently taken up the sport. He went up the mountain and never came down. They have not yet found his body.’

  ‘How horrible! ’ I rejoined. ‘Again, sir, please accept my sympathy! Come, then, and take a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I do not take stimulants of any kind. I find it best, in my profession. With your permission, however, I shall enjoy a cigar while we speak.’

  ‘But of course,’ Holmes said, showing him to the cane-backed chair, next to mine. ‘Your note mentioned Dr Trevelyan. Have you known him long?’

  ‘Almost a year. He was quite successful in treating a client of mine, who had succumbed to a nervous disorder. He is, I think, a brilliant young physician. Likewise, he has become quite a good friend. He speaks highly of you, Mr Holmes, and how you handled the Blessington affair.’

  Holmes bowed slightly. ‘It was a singular case,’ he replied, as he sank back into his favourite armchair, ‘though not terribly difficult. I only wish Blessington had been honest with me from the start. If so, he would likely be alive today.’

  Holmes produced Montclair’s note from his waistcoat pocket, and eyed it quizzically. ‘Now then, Mr Montclair,’ he said, ‘I wish you to start from scratch. Be as detailed as if you were preparing a legal brief, and tell me of this “perplexing matter” of which you write.’

  Montclair struck a match and lit his La Corona, sending a small cloud of blue smoke swirling to the ceiling. ‘It all began on Wednesday last,’ he said, ‘at our offices on Bond Street. A man was shown in whom I had never met before. His name, he said, was Henri Victoire, and he had come to make a request.

  ‘ “I am here because your reputation for integrity and discretion are well known,” he said. “Oh, don’t be modest, sir. It most surely is. It is why I wish you to undertake a very delicate mission on my behalf.”

  ‘ “And that is?”

  ‘ “I wish you to be my personal courier. To deliver an important letter for me to Bristol.”

  ‘ “What type of letter? What are the circumstances?”

  ‘ “Of a private nature, I’m afraid. Oh, there is nothing illegal, I assure you! But it is a business matter, and the letter must be delivered to Mr Warwick, at the Royal Hotel, on Friday.”

  ‘ “Very well. I’m sure someone from our office can handle the chore.”

  ‘ “Oh, no, sir! ” he insisted. “Not anyone from your firm; that just won’t do! It must be you, sir! I’ll trust this matter to no one else.”

  ‘For a moment or two, I hesitated, gentlemen though not for the reason you think. You see, the Carpathia was docking Friday; my late brother’s things had been sent home, and naturally, I wished to claim them. But, since Mr Victoire seemed so insistent, I decided to send my man Hayes along instead.

  ‘ “Very well”, I told him, “I shall deliver your letter to Bristol on Friday. What are your instructions?”

  ‘ “They are quite simple,” he said. “Upon arriving in Bristol, take a room at the Royal Hotel. At precisely five o’clock present yourself at the front desk, and inform the concierge you have a letter for Mr Warwick. Once you have seen it placed securely in his box, your duties are fulfilled. You may enjoy dinner at the hotel, and I’m certain you’ll be able to catch an early train Saturday morning for your return.”

  ‘ “And as to expenses? ”

  ‘ “Cost is no matter, Mr Montclair,” he assured me. “What is paramount is that this letter is delivered to Mr Warwick punctually at five. This, I’m sure, will more than cover your fee and any expenses.”

  ‘At which point, Mr Holmes, he drew two envelopes from his waistcoat pocket. One contained the missive I was to deliver, the other one hundred pounds in notes.’

  Holmes whistled. ‘A princely sum, indeed! ’ he exclaimed. ‘Especially for what seems so trivial a task. The envelope which contained the letter, what was it like?’

  ‘By its thickness, I’m certain it contained at least two
or three sheets of paper. The envelope was blue, sealed with yellow wax. There was no writing upon it, save for Mr Warwick’s name, although the crest bore my client’s initials, “H.V.”.’

  ‘I see. Proceed.’

  ‘Everything went off like clockwork. I travelled by train to Bristol, and secured a room at the Royal Hotel. At five o’clock exactly, I turned over the letter, which I then saw placed in Mr Warwick’s box. As to dinner, the pheasant and escargots were quite delicious. I returned from Bristol the following morning.’

  ‘But you did not see this Mr Warwick yourself ?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘No, sir, I did not. Mr Victoire had said that was not necessary; only that I be sure the letter was placed into his box. However, I did enquire Saturday morning, as I was leaving, as to whether the gentleman had indeed claimed his mail. I was told he had, and that he’d checked out some time before. I took that to be the end of it.’

  ‘H’mm,’ Holmes mused, ‘this is a strange business to be sure. Why pay for the security of a courier, if the letter was not to be placed directly into Warwick’s hand? And why such punctuality, when there was no one to meet?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, sir. And Dr Trevelyan’s as well, once he had heard the particulars. We dined on Saturday night at Boodle’s; it was then that he urged I consult you.’

  For a moment, Holmes said nothing. Behind the half-closed eyes, I knew, his mind was racing.

  ‘And your brother’s effects?’ I asked. ‘They were waiting when you returned?’

  ‘Alas, no, Doctor. Somehow a mistake had been made, and they were not aboard the Carpathia. Apologies were given and Hayes was told that Arthur’s trunks would most assuredly follow on the Mauro Elaina, which docks today.’

  ‘Ah, you are on your way to customs, then?’

  ‘No, worse luck. I’ve been forced to send poor Hayes again.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because,’ our client exclaimed, ‘in one hour, I shall be on my way to Bristol again, on behalf of Mr Victoire! ’

  I could not help but show surprise. Holmes had bolted upright in his chair, suddenly at attention. ‘Another letter?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes. Exactly like the first. Mr Victoire brought it to my office yesterday, imploring me to represent him one more time. And, he produced another hundred pounds, as well! ’

  Holmes’s eyes were gleaming now; he seemed like a hound who has caught the scent. ‘Your instructions – ?’

  ‘They are the same. I am again to leave a letter for Mr Warwick at the Royal Hotel.’

  ‘At five o’clock?’

  ‘At five o’clock.’

  A slight smile passed across Holmes’s lips. Rising, he walked over to Montclair and reached out his hand. ‘Mr Victoire’s letter – may I see it?’

  Montclair hesitated. ‘You may examine it,’ he said, finally, drawing a long blue envelope from his coat pocket. ‘The contents, you understand, are confidential.’

  Holmes’s eyes narrowed; it was a look I had seen before.

  ‘You will bear witness, Watson,’ he declared, as we walked towards the fireplace, ‘that I take full responsibility for my actions! ’

  In a flash, he plucked his ever-present knife from the mantle, sliced open the envelope, and proceeded to read the pages inside.

  ‘Mr Holmes! ’ Montclair roared, leaping to his feet. ‘This is an outrage, sir! Your rashness will cost me my reputation! ’

  ‘If so, you have sold it for very little,’ Holmes replied, returning him the papers. ‘Any court, I’ll wager, would find this a false sale, indeed.’

  Montclair and I stood stunned. The pages before us were blank!

  ‘But, but –! ’ our client stammered. ‘What does this mean, sir? What kind of hoax is this?’

  ‘A decidedly expensive one,’ I interjected. ‘A game someone is willing to spend two hundred pounds to play.’

  Holmes clapped his hands. ‘Point well taken, Watson! ’ he concurred. ‘This matter is hardly so shallow. Now, Mr Montclair – if you would – return to your chair and describe this Henri Victoire to me.’

  ‘He is a small, lean fellow – about five feet tall. His hair is black and shiny, and his moustache is twirled and waxed. He is an engaging person, I suppose, though his accent and manner clearly mark him as French. He dresses well, and carries a stick.’

  ‘And does he smoke?’

  ‘Yes, cigarettes. He carries them in a thin, silver case, and uses a holder before smoking.’

  Holmes’s face appeared grave, though I could not for the life of me imagine why. ‘And your late brother,’ he asked, in a softer tone, ‘did he have any other interests while he lived in England?’

  ‘Sports, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, or forms of recreation.’

  ‘Well, he followed the cricket matches religiously. Arthur never was much of a player himself, but he’d travel half a day to watch Grace swing. That, and whist, were his two passions.’

  ‘Cards, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Without his Wednesday and Friday nights at the club, I think he might have gone mad this summer, languishing about the Foreign Office. He was quite enthused, when his appointment was finally settled.’

  ‘Ah, he played with you at Boodle’s, then?’

  ‘No. He belonged to the Bagatelle; put up last Christmas by a mutual friend. Does it really matter? I –’

  Holmes silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘What matters now, Mr Montclair, is that you put yourself completely in my hands,’ he said, severely. ‘This is a serious business; far more so than you realise. I have two questions: what time does your train leave for Bristol? And what time is Hayes to meet the boat?’

  ‘I’m to take the eleven o’clock at Paddington,’ Montclair answered. ‘My luggage is with me, in the cab. The Mauro Elaina, I believe, docks at two.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Holmes said. ‘Had they been reversed, we’d have been hard put. Board your train at eleven, then, and go as far as Reading. When you arrive, get

  off and catch the first train back, then drive immediately here. Speak to no one, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Besides Hayes, are there any other servants?’

  ‘Only Emma, the cook.’

  ‘And is there a way the three of us, possibly four, might enter your house undetected?’ Montclair thought a moment. ‘The cellar door! ’ he declared. ‘It is located in the rear, and there are evergreens on either side. It is kept locked, but I have a key.’

  ‘Excellent! Then it shall be our passageway later. Watson, fetch Mr Montclair his coat and hat, will you? It is imperative, sir, that you do not miss your train.’

  At the door, Montclair protested a final time, but Holmes steadfastly refused to tell him more. ‘In good time, you will know all,’ my friend assured him, as he buttoned up his wrap. ‘But hurry now! And remember, not a word to anyone that you are getting off at Reading; come directly back to Baker Street. On no account, be later than four-thirty! Darkness falls early this time of year.’

  As I closed the door on our bewildered friend, I had to admit I was as much in the dark as he. Holmes had obviously detected something quite sinister behind these strange goings-on. But what they had to do with Montclair’s home, or the arrival of his dead brother’s belongings, I could not fathom.

  Silently, I watched as Holmes stoked the fire, then reached for his favourite clay and the Turkish slipper. When he did not immediately ask for some time alone, I decided to try an opening.

  ‘You have a theory on all this, then?’ I asked, taking up my pipe as well.

  ‘It is Moriarty,’ Holmes replied, as he struck a match. Outside, the wind whipped angrily at the windows, but it was not that which caused me to shudder slightly.

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘Because the man Montclair described to me was Pierre D’Arcy. I’d bet my life on that.’

  ‘D’Arcy?’ I queried, rising to fetch Holmes’s directory. ‘I do not believe I’ve hea
rd that name.’

  ‘You’ll not find him there, Watson,’ my companion said. ‘My knowledge of his background, I confess, is still too thin. I do know he was once a tailor and a locksmith, but his deft fingers and mind have found themselves another trade. He has become one of the most successful jewel thieves in Europe, and has recently come into Professor Moriarty’s employ.’

  ‘However did you learn that?’ I asked.

  ‘Porlock,’ Holmes answered, referring to the lone informant he had been able to secure inside Moriarty’s gates, at the time of the tragic Birlstone affair.‘My pilot fish, thank goodness, still chooses to follow the shark, illuminating our way.’

  ‘Was it he who gave you D’Arcy’s description?’

  ‘No. I glimpsed his face in the Rogues’ Portrait Gallery at the Yard, back in July. In addition to his penchant for snuff, the silver cigarette case and holder were also mentioned.’

  ‘But a jewel thief ? I thought that was Colonel Moran’s domain?’

  ‘It is an ominous sign, Watson. It suggests that Moriarty is already expanding his operations to the Continent. Moran, no doubt, has been assured primacy inside our shores.’

  ‘You think, then, that some great crime is about to be committed?’

  ‘No, Watson. I know it has already been done.’

  ‘What?’

  Holmes went to his desk and rummaged among his clippings, then brought me one from the Times which he had not yet pasted into his scrapbook. ‘Had you risen at a decent hour this morning, you would have quite likely had knowledge of this,’ he said. ‘I daresay, it would have given you a whole different perspective on what Montclair was telling us.’

  The story, which was headed Rome, Italy, had appeared on September 18, the day after we had departed for Stranraer. It read:

  Valuable Jewel Stolen in Italy:

  Police Baffled

  Rome, Italy – Italian authorities reported on Sunday that a widespread search was already under way for thieves who on Saturday night stole the valuable Brereton Emerald from a British diplomat’s residence, just outside the city.

  The jewel, which belonged to Mrs Abigail Morrison, wife of Sir William Morrison, the British Ambassador, was taken in the early-morning hours while the house was asleep. The villa, owned by the Duchess Arabella of Cavour, was on loan to the Morrisons for the length of Sir William’s stay.